


On The Side of the Angels

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Stranger in a Strange Land - Robert A. Heinlein
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Crossover, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fainting, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Season/Series 02-03 Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: Sherlock may not believe in them, but it's a good thing he's got a guardian angel looking out for him.  Especially when it comes to John.





	On The Side of the Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tellywhich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, tellywhich! Sorry this is a little later than your actual birthday, but I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless!
> 
> The poem Sherlock recites is an English translation of a poem by Erich Fried, "Was es ist?"
> 
> Unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and clenched his teeth as a wave of irritation swept over him. John’s high-pitched, familiar giggle rang out from a pair of chairs set near the blazing fireplace, joined by the rich baritone chuckle of the man seated next to him.

_He’s been talking with that man for hours_ , Sherlock thought, crossly.

(and it’s not like you get to see him anymore.)

Another glance showed him that John was unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging it off one shoulder to display the starburst-shaped scar there, souvenir of the bullet wound that had ended his time in Afghanistan. 

The man he was showing it to was older, bald but for a few white wisps of hair across his pate, wearing khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt in a frankly eye-gouging colour palette. He was leaning forward, intent on John, who was talking animatedly, hands moving in the air. Likely telling the story of how he’d gotten that particular memento.

Sherlock turned back to the bar and sniffed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard the story before. John had told it to him, although it had taken nearly a year of living together and the better part of a bottle of good Scotch before he was willing to open up and tell Sherlock what had happened. But it wasn’t like John couldn’t have other confidants – maybe telling Sherlock had enabled John to loosen up, be freer about telling that story to people he didn’t know as well. 

(well, he needs to, doesn’t he? he doesn’t have you as a confidant anymore.)

He frowned, shaking his head slightly. Where had that come from?

But before he could follow the thought, a hand pushed a pint of dark ale over in front of him. “You look like you could use that,” a kind voice added. 

He looked up. The man standing behind the bar could have been his brother. He was tall, well-built, wearing a maroon shirt open at the neck. He had dark, curly hair and bright blue eyes, but his face was rounder and softer than Sherlock’s. He smiled at Sherlock as he dried a glass.

“And you are?”

The man put down his glass and towel and stuck his hand out. “Valentine Michael Smith. But I prefer to go by my middle name, much like you do, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. You can call me Mike.” 

Sherlock shook his hand, eyes flicking up and down Mike’s body and face, gathering data. 

But this time something was wrong. The data wouldn’t converge, they didn’t make sense. Mike didn’t make sense. He was young, yet old. Male, yet not. Innocent and worldly. Wise and foolish. Mortal and… eternal?

Mike let go of Sherlock’s hand and laughed. “Yeah, you’re gonna have some trouble grokking me. In this incarnation, I’m not from Earth. I was born and raised on Mars.”

“Grokking?”

“It’s a Martian word. Literally translated, it means to drink, but in my culture, it means to understand something completely, utterly. So completely that you become a part of it, merge with it. More or less what you do when you’re deducing.”

Sherlock snorted. “I simply observe. I don’t merge.”

Mike smiled. 

Sherlock blinked, feeling completely nonplussed. He didn’t understand what was happening. People on Mars, John laughing with someone who wasn’t him, these odd random thoughts that were popping up in his head… 

(maybe this isn’t real. maybe you’re dreaming.)

“I’m afraid you couldn’t fully grok me without first learning Martian,” Mike continued, “and don’t get me wrong, I think you’d be terrific at it, probably pick it up faster than Jill or Dawn – but we don’t really have time for that.”

A burst of laughter came from behind him and Sherlock turned to look, frowning. John had put his shirt back on, at least, but now the older man was the one telling the story, enthusiastically miming doing chest compressions on an imaginary supine body. 

“You mustn’t be jealous of Jubal. He and John have so much in common – they’re both doctors, both soldiers, both writers. It stands to reason they’d get along. And I needed to talk to you without you being distracted.”

Sherlock looked back at Mike. “Talk to me about what?”

Mike took a deep breath. He’d lost his affable smile and his eyes were serious. “Listen, things are… things are going to be hard for a while. It’s going to seem like there’s no hope, it’s going to be tempting to give up, but you have to hang on. You have to believe. You have to remember: thou art God.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “God is a ludicrous fantasy, a figment of weak imaginations.”

Sighing, Mike scratched a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay,” he muttered under his breath, as if he was talking to someone. “You said that wouldn’t work. You were right.” He paused, as if listening, then focused his attention back on Sherlock. “Fine. How about this? It is what it is.” 

“It is what it is?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a tautology, it doesn’t make any sense. What does that even mean?”

Mike lowered his head and braced both hands on the bar. “Just… you need to remember it. If it helps, it’s part of a longer work. But the important part is this – it is what it is, says love.”

Sherlock repeated it, even though he felt foolish. “It is what it is, says love.” 

“Yeah. Just remember that. Because love conquers all.”

His heart was beating faster, Sherlock noticed, and there was an unpleasant fluttering in his gut that felt uncomfortably like fear. “That’s… that’s a ridiculous notion,” he said, but his voice wavered. 

“It’s not.” Mike had straightened and was looking directly at him again, his gaze softening a little, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Love’s the only thing that counts, in this world or any other. It’s what keeps the universe going. Never doubt that. And never doubt that John Watson loves you, as much as you love him.” 

“I—” That was a nice thought, even if he didn’t believe it. Why should it make him feel cold? Why should it make his throat close and his eyes prickle with the threat of tears? 

(because you betrayed that love. you ruined it.)

“What are you two talking about?” 

Sherlock turned his head to see John standing next to him, a smile twinkling in his dark blue eyes. It was a sight that never failed to make warmth bloom in his chest, sweet and tender, and so he didn’t understand why his heart contracted like he’d been stabbed and his stomach felt like he’d swallowed a lump of solid iron. 

(you blew it, you blew it, you blew it. even if you came back, he’d never forgive you.)

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Kissing,” Mike said easily. He was polishing a glass again, smiling easily, all traces of his earlier intensity gone. “The secret to kissing.”

“Which is?” John tilted his head, looking back and forth between Mike and Sherlock. 

“To give it all of your attention,” Mike said. “Most people, they’re distracted when they’re kissing someone, thinking about what’s going to happen next, what’s for dinner, did they forget to send that email, how are they going to ask their boss for a raise next week, whose turn is it to let the dog out – things like that. To be a really good kisser, you have to be totally focused on that kiss, that moment. It has to be your whole universe. Nothing else is happening.” 

Pain shivered down Sherlock’s spine, making him gasp. What was going on? Was there something wrong with him?

“What do you think,” John said, turning to face him, his smile turned provocative, “want to give it a try?”

And he did, oh, he did, so badly that it made his throat tighten and the palms of his hands itch. He reached for John, cupping the back of his neck with one hand, the other on his shoulder blade, pulling him close, trying to ignore the throbbing ache across his back.

John’s smile didn’t fade but his eyes were on Sherlock, a small crease forming between his brows. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

The room shook, as if a giant had stomped on the ground. Sherlock staggered, nearly losing his balance. John stumbled backwards as if an invisible hand had shoved them apart.

A woman’s voice rang out, edged with panic. “Mike, I can’t hold it, he’s too strong!”

“Damn it,” Mike cursed, and put glass and cloth down again. “You’d think as an angelic being, I’d have better control of time. It’s okay, Jill, I’ve got it.” He jumped nimbly over the bar and stood in front of Sherlock, grasping both his hands in his own. The intensity was back in his eyes. “Remember, Sherlock. It’s really important. It is what it is, says love. And love conquers all.” 

Sherlock blinked at him. The pain was shimmying up his back in waves, so strong he couldn’t speak. The room shook again, and then a third time, and then shattered into fragments. 

He was in complete and utter darkness, huddling naked on a damp stone floor. He blinked furiously, but only knew that he was moving by the faint sensation of his lashes on his cheeks. He couldn’t see a thing. His back was on fire, but the rest of him was freezing. 

Memory swept in, clearing the fragments of dream from his mind. 

He’d paid dearly for that last escape attempt. His captor had seemed to take pleasure in beating him, beyond what one would expect. Probably because of what he’d told him about his father. He huffed to himself, a mirthless inner laugh. Wait until he told him about his wife and the coffin maker. 

Shivering, he dragged himself across the cold floor until his head bumped against one of the walls. It wasn’t far, there wasn’t much room in his tiny cell. He curled up, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, trying to press as much of his aching back to the wall as possible. The stone was rough, but it was cold, which helped to ease the pain, as much as anything could. 

He exhaled, but it came out as more of a sob. He could feel his mouth trembling. He would be able to handle this if he could just stop having these dreams about John. That life was over, that was done, he’d burned that bridge and he was never going to be able to go back. It wasn’t like anyone was going to come and get him. This was it. And he could stand it, he could accept it, even welcome it. It was a fitting end for someone who had betrayed the trust of the man that he only now realized that he loved. 

His captors, they were stupid, stupid and short-sighted. He knew he could needle them, push them, find the right information to drive them wild with fury and kill him… if he could just stop having these dreams. 

He wasn’t sure which hurt more, his back or his heart. He could ease the pain in his back. And here, in the dark, where no one could see him, not even himself, he could ease the pain in his heart as well. He could let go, let the anguish take him. Let the tears boil up from inside of him, a flood of them, racking his body and crushing his heart, until he was exhausted, until there was nothing left but unconsciousness, and then neither back nor heart mattered anymore. 

But no matter what he did, nothing quieted that still small voice murmuring in the back of his head.

(it is what it is, says love.)

***

“It is what it is,” he echoed, drawing John close, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other splayed across his shoulder. He rested his cheek on the top of John’s head and exhaled slowly, trying to absorb John’s grief and guilt, to take some of that burden away from him.

Because, in truth, he was responsible for most, if not all, of it. He’d been the one to convince John to go back to Mary, to pretend to forgive her. He should have realized what that would do to him. John was not a man to adopt artifice comfortably. Disguise was not in his nature. It was to be expected that the months of subterfuge, necessary though they were, would take their toll. 

_For someone with a brilliant intellect,_ he told himself, _you can be staggeringly ignorant where human emotions are concerned._

He had to set things right, remind John of who he was – who _they_ were. 

“It is what it is – and what it is, is shit,” John had said, but that wasn’t right. That wasn’t the poem. He’d looked it up one night, after the wedding, when John was gone and the flat was empty and echoing and he couldn’t sleep, not even with heroin running through his veins. He’d looked it up and memorized it, hoping to quiet that damned voice. 

It hadn’t worked. But he still remembered the poem. 

“It is nonsense, says reason,” he said softly, stroking the back of John’s neck. “It is what it is, says love.”

He felt John’s sobs slow, felt him take a deep breath, felt the painful hitches smoothing out into even inhalations and exhalations. 

“It is calamity, says calculation,” Sherlock continued. “It is nothing but pain, says fear. It is hopeless—” His voice cracked on that, and he realized that he was close to tears himself. He took a deep breath of his own. “It is hopeless, says insight. It is what it is, says love.” 

John leaned in to him, one hand curled tightly in the lapel of his dressing gown.

Sherlock tightened his grip and pulled John closer. “It is ludicrous, says pride. It is foolish, says caution. It is impossible, says experience. It is what it is, says love.” 

John’s other arm came around his waist, slowly, tentatively, and Sherlock closed his eyes. He held him for a long moment, committing every detail of this to John’s wing in his mind palace, then pulled away.

Confusion and hurt and uncertainty and longing were warring, naked and raw on John’s face, his eyes lost, his lips starting to form a question.

“You told me to do something, while there’s still a chance,” Sherlock said softly. He cupped John’s face in his hands, brushed away the dampness on his cheeks with his thumbs. “This is what I want to do.” Then he leaned forward and kissed John.

John froze. Then he put his hands flat on Sherlock’s chest and for a moment, a horrible sinking moment, Sherlock thought John was going to push him away, furious, yelling at him, just like when he had returned.

But then John groaned, grabbed both lapels of Sherlock’s dressing gown in his fists and yanked him closer, his mouth hard and demanding on Sherlock’s. 

There was nothing for him in that moment but John. John filled all his senses – the scents of him, rich like fine leather, and sharp and woodsy; the taste of tea and, faintly beneath it, whiskey; the contrast between the warm, slightly damp skin of his cheeks and the cool, rough nap of his cotton shirt as Sherlock slid his hands down John’s shoulders; the feel of John’s knuckles blunt and hard against the muscles of his chest; the soft breathy moans John was making as Sherlock devoured his mouth. He couldn’t even spare a thought for recording anything for mind palace posterity, he was so absorbed in the experience of kissing John.

The tension abruptly went out of John’s body and he went limp. 

Startled, Sherlock nearly lost his grip. But he managed to hold on to John and wrestle his dead weight into his chair. 

Heart thumping, he looked John over carefully. He was breathing evenly, his pulse was slightly elevated but otherwise normal, and his colour was good. He was just unconscious. 

Sherlock went into the kitchen and rummaged around in his chemistry supplies, at last finding a small glass vial labeled “aromatic spirits of ammonia.” He also filled a glass with water from the tap and made his way back into the sitting room.

He put the water on the side table and sank to his knees in front of the chair. John was still out, but when Sherlock took the stopper off the vial and waved it under John’s nose, he roused, blinking and sputtering a little. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and turned it so he could read the label on the vial. “Smelling salts?” he asked.

“You fainted. Drink some water.”

“I did _not_ faint,” John replied, taking a deep gulp from the glass.

“Then what happened?”

John scratched the side of his head, brow furrowing. “You were kissing me, and… and it was, uh, a little, er, _unexpected_ ….” He looked up at Sherlock with a small lovely smile that made Sherlock’s heart thud erratically in his chest. 

John cleared his throat and took another sip of water. “Um… yeah… anyway, you were kissing me and it just seemed like all your attention was focused on me, all at once, and it was… well, it was a little overwhelming, and I started to feel a little dizzy, yeah, and then… and then….”

“You fainted,” Sherlock supplied helpfully.

“I do _not_ faint,” John said firmly, although Sherlock noticed a distinct pink blush across his cheeks. “Here, you should have some of this as well,” he said, handing the glass of water to Sherlock.

He took a sip and put the glass back on the side table. A feeling of contentment, of rightness spread through him, warm and comforting. 

“So how did you do that?” John asked.

Sherlock tried and failed to suppress a smug smile. “Well, you’re right, for once. I just gave you all my attention. Most people don’t do that when they kiss.”

“And where did you learn that?”

Sherlock frowned. “I… I can’t remember. Maybe it was something I read?” There was a memory, dim and unfocused, of a man talking to him at a bar. He looked at John. “Care to try it again?”

“Oh, God, yes,” John murmured, and leaned forward. 

John didn’t faint again, Sherlock noted, with a mixture of pleasure and disappointment, and he was an annoyingly quick study. There were a few moments where Sherlock felt close to fainting himself. 

They were both flushed and panting when John pulled away. “We are seriously late for cake.”

“I don’t want cake,” Sherlock said petulantly.

“But Molly’s waiting for us.” At Sherlock’s look, he said, “I’ll tell her she doesn’t need to come for the next shift afterwards. Just let me go and get Rosie.”

“You’ll come back here, with me?”

“Yeah,” John replied, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“Then we’re… then this is… alright, then?” Even as the words left his mouth, Sherlock cursed himself for how ineloquent he sounded.

John smiled. “I said I wanted more, didn’t I?” He reached up and ran his fingers lightly down Sherlock’s cheek. “We’ll talk about it, I promise. After cake.”

It was like a supernova had exploded in his chest. Warmth spread through him, brilliant and pulsing. “Let me go and get my jacket,” he said. 

***

“Whew!” Mike sat back and scratched his head, momentarily dislodging the halo that perched above it. “For a moment there, I thought I wasn’t going to be able to make that happen.” 

“You did a good job, son,” Jubal said, patting him on the shoulder. “Some are harder than others.” 

“Well, I think I should get some credit for finding that poem,” Jill said.

“You absolutely should,” Mike agreed, reaching up to give her a kiss. “That was inspired.”

Jill put her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek next to his. “But you had faith in them, Mike, that’s the most important thing.” 

“Well, it’s easy to have faith when you know the truth. It’s all about love.”

“Love conquers all,” Jill agreed. 

The three of them beamed at each other for a moment, then Mike clapped his hands together, rubbing them in excitement. “Okay,” he said, “who’s next?”


End file.
